


An Interlude In Paris

by tinx_r



Category: The Man in the Brown Suit - Agatha Christie
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19212883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinx_r/pseuds/tinx_r
Summary: I do hope you enjoy this





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RecessiveJean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecessiveJean/gifts).



> I do hope you enjoy this

Paris at last! Although instead of the beautiful frocks of my dreams, much to Suzanne's chagrin, I had instead spent large sums of money upon the latest thing in infant fashion. 

Of course, my son, John (for his father) Charles (for mine), was far more inclined to run about in little more than a native loincloth, or less if I was not vigilant. But that did not dissuade me.

Charlie would be smart indeed on my return, and Harry, if he was wise, would remain silent on the subject.

"Why don't you wire him about it?" asked Suzanne thoughtfully. We were comfortably taking afternoon tea in our hotel on the Avenue Kleber, one of the newer sort named, uninspiringly, the Majestic. Presumably this was to attract the staid British abroad, as the population of the hotel seemed entirely English-speaking.

"I shan't," I said decidedly, and dabbed Eau de Cologne behind my ears. Despite living most of the time in the tropics, I had fallen out of the way of perfumes and scents, as Harry appreciated me au naturelle. Or so he said. 

"Why are you blushing?" Suzanne inquired, looking altogether too knowing than I felt she had any right to. 

"You've been married simply ages," I said decisively, "and you haven't even the decency to let me blush in peace. I am sorry I came."

"You know you're not," she said, dimpling, and passed a laden plate. "Here, gipsy girl. Have an eclair."

"I believe I shall," I reflected, and did. It is amazing how one forgets - we don't have cream at home, as refrigeration on the island is non-existent. I have learned to take my tea and coffee either black or with powdered milk, and my son grows strong on exotic fruits and berries whose names I have barely learned.

I had begun my fleeting visit with ten days in England - necessary to finalise my parent's affairs completely. The things which had been packed away when I had left, so long ago, must needs be disposed of or sent to Africa, The Daily Budget in the shape of Lord Nasby wanted to discuss a series of articles on life in Africa, and I confessed a certain nostalgia for the isle of my birth. 

Plus, I missed Suzanne. So it was with the greatest of ease that she persuaded me to a week in Paris - for after all, I had never been, and what adventuress worth her salt could miss the City of Light? 

I had cabled Harry about that, and gotten a brief reply. Go. Enjoy. I miss you. Had Suzanne not been watching closely, I might have taken passage home that afternoon.

She calls us lunatics in love, and I daresay we are. This trip is the first time we've been parted for more than a few days since we married, and I miss him like the sun. There! I daresay I sound like a romance novel, but it's the whole truth, and there's nothing I can do about it.

"Anne!" Suzanne hissed, and put down her cream-cake. There is very little in this world that comes between Suzanne and cream cakes, so I paid attention immediately. "Isn't that Sir Eustace?"

I looked, hurriedly, then looked away. Bending as though to fidget with my stocking, I half-turned for a better look. Certainly the figure was his, the height, and even the style of dress.

"He was going to Bolivia, " I murmured doubtfully.

"A smokescreen perhaps? I am certain Paris is more comfortable. Or perhaps he is merely visiting."

"Perhaps." The gentleman in question was talking to the concierge, and as he stepped away toward the stair, I got a look at his face. There were obvious changes, but I had learnt something from the many faces of Chichester-Meeks, and frowned.

"Do you know, I think you are right."

"So what now? Do we send for the police?"

"We can't." My frown deepened. "Because we may be wrong, or more importantly, his papers may be such to convince the gendarmes that we are wrong, and then what? Nuisance British women causing a stir and insulting Frenchmen?"

"You're right. I hadn't considered." Suzanne shook her head. "Perhaps I should wire Clarence."

"Perhaps we should retreat upstairs," I countered, "and have a Council of War. It won't do for him to see us, you know. I wonder what he can be doing here?"

We retired to Suzanne's room, as it was larger than mine, and I availed myself of room service. An ice cream soda apiece was necessary - an army, after all, marches on its stomach.

When they came, Suzanne declined hers with a delicate shudder. Unperturbed, I embarked on the first. 

"What do we know? He has started from nothing. So presumably he is not the man of means he once was. However, this hotel is not cheap, and he must have paid somehow."

"An assumption, if he is known here, or if he has persuaded them he is someone of importance," Suzanne mused. "I have paid nothing because everyone knows Clarence Blair."

"Every milliner in Paris knows Mrs. Clarence Blair," I retorted, and she laughed.

"Touche," she conceded. "Listen, Anne, Colonel Race arrives in Paris tomorrow. He has been doing something frightfully secret and travelling all around the low countries. Perhaps he is looking for Sir Eustace."

"Perhaps he is," I agreed. "Will he tell you, do you think?"

"He might tell you." Suzanne dimpled and I had the grace to blush. 

"I am a married woman," I reminded her sternly.

"As am I. But Colonel Race is such a gentleman, and plays the game delightfully. One can be the most devoted wife, and flirt terribly, yet know one is quite safe and perfectly comfortable."

I thinned my lips. I have never been as carefree as Suzanne, or as others of my sex, with my affections. Nor do I think it is right to use men as mere playthings. Just look at Nadina and what she did. Men do many questionable things in order to get ahead, but no woman should pretend to be in love when she isn't, not for any reason.

"Yes, yes, you're young and love is all still so terribly serious." Suzanne laughed, but kindly. "One day, my dear, you will understand, I promise you. In the meantime, pass me one of those cable forms. I shall cable Colonel Race immediately.

There is nothing Suzanne likes better than sending cables. Once she'd finished her epistle to Colonel Race - at least ten words longer than it needed to be in my opinion! - she sent another to Clarence. As far as I could see, she might as well have sent an ordinary letter. Suzanne is nothing if not extravagant.

Colonel Race arrived at the Hotel Majestic in the early afternoon, and Suzanne at once invited him to join us for a late lunch. He had received our wire on the train, and immediately come to us on his arrival in Paris.

I had not imagined him so interested in Sir Eustace Pedler, and said so. I think I was never one of those mealy-mouthed girls so admired by the popular press, and marriage has made me even less inclined to say what is expected.

"Really, madam journalist?" Colonel Race said with a small, amused smile. "It's true, now Pedler is a fugitive he is of less interest than when he was a criminal mastermind. Yet still we strive to bring those who sin to justice."

I conceded, and turned my attention to my plate, suitably chastened. I will never rid myself of my soft spot for Sir Eustace Pedler, a most charming villain, and I sometimes reflect that had things been different - had Harry been less or different or not so immediately mine - that the offer of becoming Lady Pedler might have been difficult to refuse.

Not for my own safety of course - for what adventuress thinks of that? - but there is something about Sir Eustace that appeals to one's sense of comfort and security. 

Colonel Race, of course, is quite different. I expect if one were to embark on romance, there is a flipside to the strong, silent Rhodesian - otherwise the romance would wither, I fear. One can savour beauty every day, certainly, but one also wants conversation over the breakfast table. Or so I find.

Meanwhile, Colonel Race was telling Suzanne about the sights of Brussels. It transpired that she had never been to the Low Countries herself, extensive traveler that she was. "Perhaps Clarence will take me in the summer," she cooed, enraptured by the story of a festival at the Cinquantenaire, a fantastic structure built at the end of the last century of iron, glass and stone, to symbolise the economic and industrial performance of Belgium.

"The British, " I observed, "would never blow their own trumpet that way."

"You're right, Lady Eardsley," Colonel Race said, directing me a wider, warmer smile. I was barely used to the title - in Africa, I was Missus or Ma'am, and even among our friends, Harry was simply Harry and I was either Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Harry or Mother. Things are simpler there.

Colonel Race continued, oblivious of my slight discomfiture. "And Mrs. Blair, the buildings are certainly worth the trouble, but trouble it is - inconvenient, and the trains run whenever they feel like it, or so I have found, with no accounting for a timetable. I caught my train and all was well - until I found I had a ticket for the slow train, and had accidentally caught the fast train, which was running two hours late. I should have had to wait another two hours for the slow train, I expect!"

"How dreadful." Suzanne's eyes went wide. "That happened to me once in Bristol, but the conductor wanted to put me off the train!"

"I expect the conductor wanted to put me off the train too, but happily I was able to placate him by lightening my purse." Colonel Race chuckled. "Anyway, tell me where you saw Pedler, and what he was doing."

Repeating our story made it sound vague and flowery, and I wished we'd never consulted Colonel Race after all. However he nodded gravely, and went away to speak to the concierge.

"I suppose it really was Sir Eustace," I said to Suzanne doubtfully.

"It was," she said, looking over my shoulder. "Look! There he is again!" 

Sure enough, he was standing just outside the restaurant, speaking to someone outside my line of sight. "We must do something!" I hissed. "Can you slip out the back and find Colonel Race?"

Suzanne looked toward the far corner, where a passage led away to the kitchen. It was for staff only, but there was another exit into the lobby that way. We had both taken the trouble to reconnoiter the preceding evening. "Yes," she agreed. "Will you follow him?"

"I will, unless he comes in here. If he does that I expect I'll have to disguise myself as a waitress."

"Don't do anything rash, Anne!" she counselled me, and crossed the room - tall, commanding, such that no-one would ask what she was doing taking the rear passage.

I moved quietly toward the door, ready to turn my back at a moment's notice. Marriage and motherhood had thickened my figure slightly - it would be vanity to claim otherwise - but in all other respects I knew I still closely resembled Anna the Adventuress. Sir Eustace Pedler would know me at a glance.

Sir Eustace set off across the lobby as I came to the door. There were two people nearby, an older woman with tired lines around her eyes, and a sleek businessman in a suit, with a briefcase and an umbrella. Neither were paying any attention to either Sir Eustace or to me, and I could not tell which of them he had been speaking to.

There was no sign of Suzanne or Colonel Race.

I had neither coat nor hat, and it was clear Sir Eustace was about to leave the hotel. There was really nothing I could do - it wouldn't do to run about Paris in the latest thing in tea-gowns and nothing else (Suzanne had after all bullied me into expanding my own wardrobe somewhat. I couldn't imagine wearing the dress in Africa, but it was the most ravishing shade and sported artificial violets at the waist). Suzanne would never forgive me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler**

The most interesting, and possibly untoward, thing has happened today. I have been compelled to travel to Paris to sort through some lingering affairs - tiresome, and the reason I employ a man of business is to try to achieve some peace. I have said before that the only thing I crave is a peaceful life, yet this goal seems bound to avoid me.

Anyway, I needs must leave my pleasant compound near L--- (this cloak and dagger nonsense alternately annoys and amuses me) and my beloved cook Bernita (I think B---- is unnecessarily paranoid) for Paris. Coffee and pastries will play old Harry with my digestion, I don't mind saying. And then I am beset - positively beset - with bank managers and lawyers and a whole pack of dimwits whose purpose in life, from my point of view, is to deal with this nonsense for me. From their point of view, their purpose is to speak from morning til night, on the subject of taxes and paperwork and investment opportunities in silver.

I moved all my holdings to tin years ago, but they haven't caught up with that yet. Fortunately, my financial man in Bolivia has, and the dividends are satisfactory. 

The other thing they haven't caught up with is the fact I am a fugitive. I can't decide if I'm in a farce or a thriller from moment to moment. 

This afternoon, for example, who should I see but Miss Anne Beddingfeld. Lady John Eardsley, I mean. Bah.

Anne. She's far too good for Rayburn (Eardsley he may be, but Rayburn he will always be to me). Youth and figure - they turn a woman's head. 

Anne, here, in the Hotel Majestic. I daren't hope she's left the fellow - I heard she'd produced a child, as young lovers do, although there was no sign of it. But here in Paris, she mustn't be alone - she must be either with Rayburn, or perhaps more likely, with Mrs. Blair. And I may be getting past my prime, and my figure may suffer from those pastries, but one thing I have noticed is that where Mrs. Blair travels, Colonel Race is not far behind.

I always advised Pagett to pay attention to the society pages, but he never saw the reasons. That, I suppose, is why he is at home with a litter of children worthy of a spaniel bitch, while I am in Bolivia making money from tin.

Or rather, in Paris, being bothered by a set of vultures who were the original reason I employed a secretary at all. Perhaps I should write to Pagett and send him a ticket to join me. Certainly, he would settle their nonsense and see that I wasn't bothered.

No, wait. He'd bring that damned stationery trunk.

***

I was right. Race is here, and I must assume Mrs. Blair. There is no sign of Rayburn.

Espionage is really not my thing and creeping about the stairwell attempting to pick up names from the porters' chatter is absolutely beneath me. Fortunately, I have been able to tie up my business this morning, by dint of becoming exceedingly firm and signing everything I was handed. 

I am wavering between taking immediate passage, or heading south for a few days until this entourage - Colonel Race and Harem - have gone on their way (I can easily keep abreast of them by reading the society pages. Take that, Pagett.) I cannot imagine Race is here on my account. My travel was hidden, no-one knows I am here (save those too stupid to print their own names!) and even they know me as an emissary - Samuel Johnston, distant cousin of Sir Eustace Pedler, executor, come from New York to manage the affairs of his criminal relative. 

I can write this name on these pages as poor Samuel will meet with an unfortunate accident on his way home. Now that this business is at an end and the funds are safely cleared, he is no longer needed. And no-one will look twice at the steerage passengers disembarking in Mexico nor notice an extra one.


	3. Chapter 3

**(Anne's Narrative Resumed)**

"Samuel Johnston," Colonel Race said grimly as he joined us at the breakfast table. "Supposedly, a distant cousin of Sir Eustace, from America. Appointed executor - by whom no-one knows - and has finalised some holdings which still existed in Europe."

"So that could explain the resemblance?" Suzanne was engaged in the barbaric British practice of buttering her croissant. No doubt she planned to add jam as well. (I have become very nice and cultured, and not at all a savage, despite what Suzanne says. Harry has very strong feelings on the proper treatment of croissants.)

"I don't believe in this Samuel Johnston at all," said Colonel Race. He had a cup of coffee and a plain croissant. "Pedler is not one to trust distant relatives with his fortune, in my opinion. No, it is Pedler himself, thinly disguised, and with luck we shall have him."

I agreed with Colonel Race. I would certainly be prepared to testify that the man I had followed in the lobby was Sir Eustace. Perhaps a little slimmer, a little less avuncular, but then, he had dropped the pretence.

"Don't you think he'd be afraid to be recognised?" Suzanne asked. As I had feared, she reached for the jam. "He has spent a great deal of time in France over the years."

"His political aspirations were always British and centred on her colonies," Race said pensively. "He has, of course, travelled throughout Europe, but perhaps not spent enough time in the major cities to be well known. Except, of course, on the Riviera. I should not imagine he would set foot there."

"Yes?" Suzanne nodded, as she raised the monstrosity she had created toward her mouth. "Perhaps you're right. Clarence has spent simply years going about Europe, but the only place they greet him by name is in Cannes. And I expect in those stuffy government offices he visits."

"One is truly invisible, isn't one?" I mused. "Unless one's purpose is a part of the day-to-day business, or one is so outlandish as to be unmistakable, one would never be recognised again."

"Except by those trained to observe all," Colonel Race said. "But although Interpol have been notified and Pedler is wanted in three countries, France isn't one of them. It is not as though his mugshot is upon every wall."

"Only three countries?" I asked. I had a vague idea that international criminal masterminds were hunted to the ends of the earth by secret agents - possibly by Colonel Race himself.

"There is sufficient proof that he is the "Colonel" behind significant criminal activity in South Africa, Austria-Hungary and Great Britain. So those countries have issued warrants for his arrest. But here in France, he is merely an Englishman likely to cause them a great deal of bother, and even more paperwork. They will take him if they must, but if no-one draws attention to him, it is as likely as anything they will let him be."

"But that's terrible!" Suzanne exclaimed. She had finished her pastry by now. I was relieved. "Shall we all be murdered in our beds by escaped criminals which France shan't be bothered to arrest?"

"The criminals who go about murdering people in their beds get arrested," Colonel Race said, with some patience and a small smile. "France is no more interested in allowing her citizens to be murdered left, right and centre than England, you may be assured of that. But these criminals who work behind the scenes - these are the ones it is harder to track down. Let a man rob a train or kill his wife, and you can be sure his picture is in every paper. But the men who send guns to Johannesburg and profit in death - their names are forgotten."

I reflected how true that was. Poor Harry - accused only of the murder of Nadina, and yet his face on every newspaper in the kingdom - probably here in France too, at least once Nadina was identified. 

There was no sign of Sir Eustace in the hotel that morning, and later in the day Colonel Race informed us that Mr. Samuel Johnston's room was empty. The bird had flown.

I was not surprised. Despite the undoubted truth of Colonel Race's observations, it needs must have been a risky trip for Sir Eustace, and no doubt he had always had a quiet escape route planned. Whether he had seen us, whether he had people on the watch, or whether today had always been the day he intended to depart, it was impossible to know.

Criminal mastermind or not, I found in myself a shade of regret at missing him; it would have been thrilling to run the old fox to earth, but more than that, it would have been nice to speak to an old friend again.

Perhaps I have a penchant for the criminal. Suzanne would certainly say so - she said as much when I first fell for Harry, after all. Not that I am in love with Sir Eustace, not at all. But he has never shown me anything but kindness and respect (except for the attempt on my life, but that, as I have explained prior, was a very different thing). He is like the favourite uncle at Christmas when one is a small child - the uncle one is convinced one shall marry some day!

I have said this before also. Girls are foolish things.

Colonel Race had gone off after breakfast, presumably to try and persuade the gendarmerie - wait, I believe I am wrong. In Paris, it is the Police Nationale - to arrest Sir Eustace Pedler and/or his alter-ego, Mr. Samuel Johnston. In the absence of further mystery and international criminals, Suzanne and I had resumed our tourist endeavours. Suzanne, of course, had seen it all before, but it was my first time in Paris.

Early in the afternoon, Suzanne and I were returning from the Louvre (when in Paris, one must, although I had so far avoided the _Muséum national d'histoire naturelle_ \- I wanted to see the gardens, of course, but I have seen the inside of more Museums of Natural History than the average person could shake a stick at.) Suzanne was already yawning daintily, and I knew that her plan for the afternoon involved curling up like a cat, probably in a convenient sunbeam, and pretending to read the society pages while napping instead. 

For myself, I felt restless and bored, so instead of following Suzanne's plan for the afternoon, I left her to go upstairs alone and ventured out in search of excitement (at least in the form of an ice-cream parlour).

Instead, at the newsagent on the corner, I saw a familiar figure. Perhaps I am a slow learner. Perhaps (according to Suzanne) I am a fey gipsy, born out of time. Perhaps (according to my husband) I'm simply as curious as a cat, with less care for my own safety.

Perhaps I should have married Colonel Race and joined the Secret Service. No, on second thoughts, that would have never done. Colonel Race is the kind of man who would expect his wife to stay home in England and read the society pages. She certainly wouldn't be permitted to chase international criminals about foreign cities.

Two blocks from the newsagent, Sir Eustace, for it was he, hailed a taxi. I dithered for a moment, then threw caution to the wind. With no apology, I ran forward and leapt into the cab, pushing the door out of Sir Eustace Pedler's hand and nearly landing in his lap.

He looked more than taken aback. I laughed and closed the door. "Reporting for duty, sir," I said jauntily. "Whatever have you done for a secretary without me?"

Sir Eustace visibly pulled himself together. "Whatever I have done," he said faintly, "has been woefully inadequate."


	4. Chapter 4

**Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler**

Anne Eardsley is really the most remarkable young woman. I noticed it at first four years ago - on board that confounded ship I immediately noticed she was the prettiest girl aboard, and certainly the one with the most spunk. When she hurtled into my private car having seemingly appeared out of thin air on a moving train, I knew I was dealing with someone quite out of the common way.

Now, she must needs materialise again - and I do not use the word lightly - this time in a taxicab in Paris. At first I thought she was tackling me so that her friends could arrest me. But a few moments in her company quickly disabused my mind of this notion.

"Anne," I said (because naming her his wife is more than I can stomach), "whatever are you doing here?"

"I don't know," she replied cheerfully. "I would like to say I am tracking you for the authorities, but then you would knock me on the head, I suppose."

"I doubt I could," I said truthfully. "So am I kidnapping you now?"

"I trust not. I have a son now, you know, and I could never leave Harry."

A thought struck me. "Are you kidnapping me, then?"

"Perhaps." She looked thoughtful. "I shan't keep you, of course. And I shall have to tell Colonel Race I have seen you, as I'm terribly bad at telling lies."

"My dear Anne, I don't believe you should be let out alone. I don't know what Eardsley is thinking, allowing you to travel half a world away. Doesn't he have any idea of the woman he's married? I tell you one thing, if you were mine, I'd know where you were every minute of the day!"

She dimpled. Really, she is the most attractive woman. "Well, you see, and that is why I could never marry you," she said, and I swear there was a note of regret in her voice. "My darling Harry has taken on fatherly duties and accorded me a holiday from Baby, and until you are a mother, you don't know what that means."

"I feel sure I shall never be a mother, and apparently it means cavorting about Paris with wanted fugitives! Anne, although I can assure you you are quite safe from me, you are not safe _with_ me - how would it be if Race and his people chose this moment to arrest me? Next thing you stand accused beside me? Where is your darling Harry then, hm?"

"Breaking me out of prison, I expect, and doing rash things with a gun." Anne smiled somewhat wistfully. "If you want the truth, Sir Eustace, I simply wanted to see you again. I have always considered you my friend."

I have always regretted what happened at the Falls. It was an impulse driven by fear, an emotion I am unused to, and in the end, it impaired my decision-making badly.

'If one thing is true, my dear Anne, you may count on that. It has never been my intention to harm as much as a hair on your head." At that, I kissed her hand. Old-fashioned, possibly avuncular, but I don't believe she would have allowed me to kiss her anywhere else.

She squeezed my hand, just as the taxi came up into traffic on the Champs Elysees and slowed to crawl, then a stop. "Goodbye, Sir Eustace," she murmured, and was gone.

The taximan started shouting - thinking, I suppose, that we were skipping his fare - and I had to throw him several notes to make him keep driving. By the time I looked around, there was no sign of Anne.

On balance, I decided the South of France seemed decidedly healthier than Paris until Race had taken himself off. There's a village I know - but enough of that. 

I believe I shall send my diary to Anne. It will give her pleasure to read, I'm certain, and it will give me pleasure to know that it is with her. On the whole, things are probably for the best - beautiful as she is, and appealing, I doubt I have been a bachelor too long to change my ways and accommodate a wife. Let alone a wife of the calibre of Miss Anne.

I pray that Eardsley is man enough for her, because she deserves the very best.


	5. Chapter 5

**(Anne's Narrative Resumed)**

It took me just over ten minutes to walk back to the hotel, head spinning. What had I done? Had I run mad? Suzanne would say I had. Harry would probably beat me, and I probably deserved it! Colonel Race might put me in prison. He probably should.

I walked into the lobby and the first person I saw was Colonel Race. "I saw him," I said, crossing quickly toward him. "Sir Eustace. He got into a taxi and I followed. I lost him on the Champs Elysees."

"Anne!" Colonel Race exclaimed. (That showed how upset he was. Since my marriage, on the few occasions we have seen each other, he has been very careful to call me Lady Eardsley). "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, of course, I wasn't in any danger. Merely I am disappointed I cannot tell you where he was going."

"I'm not," Colonel Race said, his mouth assuming a grim line. "Had you seen where he went, you might now be in terrible danger. And understand this. I would sooner see Pedler a free man the rest of his life than see you harmed, do you understand?"

"Yes, of course," I said meekly, and submitted to being escorted upstairs to Suzanne's chaperonage. She is wiser than most, and knows me better than nearly anyone, but for once forbore to quiz me. Perhaps she knew I didn't have the answer - perhaps she didn't want to know the answer. 

The next day, a wire arrived from Harry that drove all thoughts of Paris, Sir Eustace and fashion from my mind. _CHARLIE ILL COME AT ONCE._ Every mother's nightmare - I had told Sir Eustace no-one knew the importance of a holiday, and how I berated the selfish sentiment that had placed those words upon my lips.

The journey home was a nightmare and seemed to take forever, until at last I held my fevered babe against my breast. He was well on the way to recovery already - Harry's wire had been sent in the first height of fever, but fever in Africa is sudden and severe, yet - usually - burns itself out just as quickly.

Charlie was weak and thin where he had been rowdy and chubby, but hungry and inquisitive, toddling about into danger, necessitating one's eyes on him at every moment.

So I never did tell my Harry of my adventures in Paris. Not even a few months later when a package arrived from Bolivia. A fat package containing a diary, and a letter, from a dear friend.


End file.
